Phantom
while widows weep by the old Saint Francis a procession of dark drags in red lipstick kick up the dust from Katrina
powdering their twisted faces with narcolepsy and narcotics
laced viagra and voodoo
inside there is a silent hum
of hallelujah and warm bread
stacked in cold cardboard boxes
stained glass and suicide
the pity alters the ions in the air as
the thick fingers of the priest
pull at his collar as he prays
silently and struggles to breathe
choking on the thick hypocrisy
in the hot Louisiana air
the line will end at the red string
and all of the marchers will fall
like the fools they are
and the widows will fix
another seat for the wounded
at the old Saint Francis on State street
Albatross
Today I washed
gods mouth out
of all the words
he spat
and the blood
poured down
the drain
with chrome
and fang
to corrode the
ocean depth
molecules hold madness
memories hold regret
the depth of space
holds moments
that I wish
I could forget
the widow
raven
with its
crooked claw
perched tight
on rotted wood
turned its eye
to the
sparrow
time
and dove
straight into
the moon
Mirrors are made
of liquid
these portals to
the truth
find your eyes
and tell no lies
your reflection
bends the root
Fraction
And there I stood silent
in a vast empty field
with the East wind
flowing steady
against my brow
And there I
swallowed memories
of past horizons
every emotion
illuminated by the sky
in teal blues
emerald greens
And there I heard
your voice
echoing gently
on the skin
of the black sea
whispering
eternity
to the lost
believer within
Imp
A little bit
closer now
hands clasped
frozen
fate
fixed
forward
to ward death
bent to anchor
this new muse
not yet ripened
by age
just a little pin
prick on
a pulsating vein
a mimicking God
flaunting suicide
someone somewhere
thrown blind
into the
deep black abyss
expanding the spores
of pain
these
remaining days
filled with
abstract radio waves
and long dead
pixels of
ghosts
these remaining days
standing fearless
on the heels
of the
devils
hooves
Prosers:
(finish this with one stanza in the comments)
White Wall
I purchased some
thumb tacks today
to hang
my fractions
of time
Attached by
thick red
string
and blood
soaked
cadmium
Inspired by
true crime
and Goya
Raygun
snapshots of
this life
deconstructed
and dismantled
until the victims
all look the same
a collage of
emotional
Man Ray
a psychological
mural of
Monet
Toxic Soup
In the murky depths of our modern existence lies a cauldron of toxicity, simmering with the noxious vapors of deceit, greed, and disillusionment. The air is thick with the acrid stench of political discord, where truth is a casualty and integrity a relic of a bygone era. Society churns in the turbulent waters of technological advancement, drowning in a deluge of information, yet starving for genuine connection. In this suffocating atmosphere, human empathy wanes, replaced by a callous indifference, leaving souls adrift in a sea of isolation. This is the toxic soup we’ve brewed, a bitter concoction of our own making, where the once-clear waters of morality have become clouded by the sediment of our collective discomfort and relentless pursuit of greed for survival.
In the face of such a tempest, one can only hold fast to the fragile hope that amidst the chaos, a glimmer of redemption may yet emerge. And as the pendulum of power swings with reckless abandon, one cannot help but wonder: who will emerge victorious in the political arena, Only time will tell, as the electorate braces itself for another round of the age-old dance between hope and disillusionment.
I do not wish for seconds.
Resignation from the Absurdly Literary Position
Dear Dick,
I hope this letter finds you in a state of literary grace and grammatical correctness. It is with a heavy heart and a dictionary of synonyms that I tender my resignation from my position as Chief Wordsmith Extraordinaire, effective immediately.
Please understand that this decision was not reached lightly. It’s just that after spending countless hours crafting metaphors, similes, and puns, I’ve come to the conclusion that my true calling lies in the lucrative world of competitive Scrabble. I feel that my talents are better suited to arranging tiles on a board than rearranging words in a document.
I will fondly remember the days spent debating the Oxford comma, arguing over the pronunciation of “gif,” and trying to sneak “onomatopoeia” into every memo. However, my ambitions now lie beyond the confines of this office, where the only punctuation I’ll be worrying about is whether or not the triple word score was worth sacrificing all my vowels.
I assure you, this decision is not a reflection of the stimulating workplace environment or the copious amounts of coffee provided. It’s simply that I’ve grown tired of searching for the perfect synonym for “exhausted” and yearn for a challenge that involves more than just battling writer’s block.
I appreciate the opportunities for growth and creativity that this position has afforded me, and I will always cherish the memories of our team’s literary shenanigans. Please know that I leave with the utmost respect for you and the entire team, and I wish everyone continued success in all their future endeavors.
Thank you for your understanding, and may the pen forever be mightier than the sword (unless we’re playing Scrabble).
Yours literarily,
Mamba
Black Eyed Man
from the dream
you awoke
and spoke of us
naked under
a tree
made of
fire
you said we
had died
and found
each other
there
on the edge
of time
bleeding
and fucking
under a tree
made of
fire
and now
after years
beyond
your passing
I imagine
you there
waiting
patiently
for me
to arrive
the black
eyed man
who held
my empty
pale soul
beyond
the storms
of internal
rage
beyond the
demons
of dark
winds
naked
and waiting
under a tree
made of
fire